


The Fighter Still Remains

by ImpishTubist



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-08-21
Updated: 2011-09-03
Packaged: 2017-10-23 09:31:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 4
Words: 14,383
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/248809
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ImpishTubist/pseuds/ImpishTubist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Moriarty, dissatisfied with Sherlock's response to him at the pool, decides on a new approach to get at the detective. Lestrade gets caught in the crossfire. </p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> De-anon from[ this picture prompt ](http://sherlockbbc-fic.livejournal.com/10852.html?thread=54971236#t54971236)on the kinkmeme. This is a revised version, and has some extended scenes.
> 
> Disclaimer: I own nothing

In the clearing stands a boxer  
And a fighter by his trade  
And he carries the reminders  
Of ev'ry glove that layed him down  
Or cut him till he cried out  
In his anger and his shame  
"I am leaving, I am leaving"  
But the fighter still remains  
-Simon & Garfunkel, "The Boxer"

xxxx  


  


  
  
Lestrade wakes to dim lights and dull noises, like the sound of shuffling feet. He cracks open an eye, decides that it isn’t worth the pain, and clamps it firmly shut again.  


  
“Now, now, Inspector,” a voice says cheerfully, and there’s a hand tapping his face. He wishes it would stop. “That’s quite rude, don’t you think? Do wake up, there’s a good man.”

  
“Fuck off,” he says, and good, the rope around his throat earlier hadn’t done anything to the warning rumble of his voice. He forces as much menace into it as he can, but all it earns him is another mirthless chuckle.

  
“I really would rather not. You’re much too entertaining to leave alone for long. Did you know it took _two_ of my men to take you down? How delightfully surprising, you are.”

  
Lestrade finally manages to get both his eyes open, and the cracking is not simply a metaphor - something has dried on his face and over his eyelids, and more likely than not it’s blood. There’s a stinging along his hairline that strengthens his theory.

  
He sees that he’s in what seems to be an expansive room. The lights are low enough that he can’t see most of it, but going by the way their voices carried - he’d guess warehouse, or something similar. Something remote.

  
Something isolated.

  
Lestrade fixes his gaze on the man before him. He’s neither exceptionally tall nor exceptionally short and is dressed impeccably. His has a cruel mouth, and right now it’s twisted into a smirk. Lestrade sighs.

  
“What do you want?” He tries to sound terribly put-upon, and frankly it isn’t really much of a stretch. He has things that need to be done, and he can’t very well do them while tied to a chair in a warehouse with a lunatic looming over him. He’s much too exhausted to even feel more than a prick of panic. Really, all he feels is annoyance.

  
“Sherlock has his _pet_. Now I have mine.”

  
And that’s when it finally clicks.

  
“You’re him.” Lestrade licks his lips; tastes copper. “That - Moriarty fellow.”

  
 _Moriarty_. A name Sherlock had spoken in a tone akin to reverence before the pool incident; a name that afterward barely graces the lips of the residents of 221B. John is still recovering from the wounds sustained that day; so is Sherlock, in his own way, but his aren’t visible to the naked eye.

  
“But who _is_ he?” Lestrade had demanded finally of Sherlock one day a few weeks back, the two of them holed up in his office, hunched over cups of tea and witness statements.

  
“He’s me,” Sherlock had said finally, in a surprising - and frightening - show of human insight. Lestrade had been taken aback, and murmured something insufficient along the lines of Sherlock not being one to harm innocent people.

  
“I take it, then, Inspector, that you conveniently glossed over the part in my statement where I described Doctor Watson wearing the bomb. Perhaps you should go back and read it through more _carefully_ ,” Sherlock had replied acidly, and Lestrade had wisely dropped the subject.  


  
The man inclines his head. “Well deduced, Inspector. I see that our mutual _friend_ is rubbing off on you. And in more ways than one, it would seem.”

  
Lestrade bristles at the insinuation and fights the urge to correct him. But it hardly mattered, really, what the man thought of them; no use wasting his breath on such inane details.  


  
“I’ll ask again - what is it you want?” Lestrade tells him impatiently. He really hasn’t time for this, he thinks. He has cases and paperwork and _Christ_ , he had been expected for dinner over an hour ago.  


  
“I took the liberty of canceling your little _appointment_ , Inspector,” Moriarty tells him, reading quite perfectly his thoughts. Lestrade suppresses a sigh. Great. _Another_ Sherlock. Just what he needs right now. “You won’t be missed for some time.”

  
“That still doesn’t answer my question, and I’m tired of asking it,” Lestrade snaps as he shifts in the chair. His hands are bound behind his back and his shoulders are beginning to ache with the odd angle. His feet are bound to each leg of the chair at the ankles, and this strikes him as quite odd. Then he realizes that he doesn’t really want to contemplate Moriarty’s reasons for binding his feet so that his legs are spread wide and instead tries to turn his attention to other matters. “You said it took two of your men to take me out.”

  
The comment is a blatant play for time as he tries the ropes that bind his wrists, and likely Moriarty realizes that but Lestrade can't bring himself to care. Unsurprisingly, the bindings hold fast, but if he could distract Moriarty long enough, he could try to work at them - stretch them out.

  
It’s foolish, he knows. He’s never been able to outwit Sherlock, not once in the five years they’ve known one another. So how can he expect to outwit the man’s intellectual equal, let alone escape?

  
Well, Sherlock’s accused him of being a fool on more than one occasion. He supposes that now is as good a time as any to start living up to that assessment.

  


  
Moriarty flashes Lestrade a thin smile that cuts through the air like steel. “Correct, Inspector. Don’t worry, though; I have plenty more.”  


  
“And what makes you so sure that they won’t end up the same way?” Lestrade asks.

  
“Oh, feeling confident, are we, Lestrade? Wonderful. I do so _love_ the half-witted ones. You’re all so much fun, in the end.” Moriarty reaches out and touches Lestrade just on the temple, and the stinging intensifies for a moment. His fingers are dark with blood when he draws them away. “You should be careful, though. I wouldn’t want you to get more... _damaged_ than you already are. Well – I don’t want you damaged at another’s hands, at least.”

  
“I’d spend less time worrying about me and more time wondering what you’re going to do once I finally get my hands on you,” Lestrade tells him smoothly. _Damn._ That blow to the head seems to have done wonders for lowering his inhibitions. “I’m a patient man, Moriarty, but I don’t take kindly to being manhandled. Now, where’s Sherlock?”

  
“Oh, you _are_ a feisty one, aren’t you?” Moriarty croons with delight. “I was expecting to be disappointed - you seem _quite_ dull, you see - and here you’ve gone and surpassed all my expectations before the fun has even started! Excellent.”

  
“Where’s -”

  
“Yes, yes, _Sherlock_ ,” Moriarty interrupts, turning away and waving a hand impatiently. “He’s perfectly safe, I assure you, as is his little plaything.”

  
“What are you going to do to him?” Lestrade demands.

  
“Nothing.” Moriarty smiles. “This is all about you, Inspector. As I’ve said, I’ve grown weary of not having a pet of my very own. Sherlock makes it look like such _fun_. I do hope you’ll be as amusing to me as dear Doctor Watson is to our little detective.”

  
“Well, if all you’re looking for is someone to follow you around saying, ‘Fantastic!’ you could have just said so. The ropes really are overkill.”

  
He feels an instant pang as the words come out of his mouth because that’s not John at all - he’s so much more; he grounds Sherlock in a way that no one (not even Lestrade) can - but Moriarty doesn’t know that. He’s not capable of processing - of _comprehending_ \- such things.

  
“No, not at all, Inspector. I _know_ my work is extraordinary. No, all I want from you is a little entertainment - a scream here, a bit of blood there. Inconsequential, really, and I’m so hoping that you’ll indulge me.” He rattles his list off cheerfully, as though he were asking for a bit of tea.

  
“Oh, is that all?” Lestrade asks weakly. He’s suddenly so very tired.

  
“No, not quite.” Moriarty whirls on him and grabs him by the collar of his shirt, slamming him into the back of the chair and twisting the fabric in his hands so tightly that it begins to cut off Lestrade’s air supply. He leans down, lips brushing the shell of Lestrade’s ear, and whispers, “Because when all that’s done - I’m going to _break_ you, Lestrade. You will become unrecognizable. And then - then I’m going to return you to our friend. I think it’d be a most delightful present, don’t you? Sherlock and I will share _everything_.”

  
He traces a line down Lestrade’s jaw with his finger. “ _Absolutely_ everything. I’ll know you as intimately as he does. I find that rather exciting, don’t you? And I’m sure - quite sure, in fact - that Sherlock will, as well.”

  
Lestrade almost laughs at the absurdity of the statement, because that’s not it at all - that’s not what he has with Sherlock. But the more time Moriarty spends with him, the less time he can spend on the rest of the world at large; the less time he can spend devising ways to torture the detective. Lestrade swallows back his correction and replaces it with a reasonably-frightened sounding, “Please, don’t.”

  
He _has_ picked up a few things from Sherlock over the years, whether the detective intended it or not. The ability to adopt a mask - on a whim - is one of them, and he developed that more out of self-preservation than anything else. He knows, somewhere in the back of his mind, that he _should_ be frightened. He should be terrified. And maybe he is, but he’s channeling it into this grim-faced determination. He’ll take whatever Moriarty decides to dish out, because him having to endure it is a thousand times better than Sherlock having to otherwise. He’ll distract the man for as long as he can.

  
“I’m rather afraid that I can’t do that, Inspector. I do get so frightfully _bored_ , you see. Now then.” Moriarty turns away. There’s a small table to Lestrade’s left, just on the edges of his periphery, and he hears Moriarty plucks something from it. Balancing the object tenderly in his hands, he turns back to Lestrade. His smile is anticipatory. “We’ll start with this, I think.”

  
xxxx

  
It isn’t so bad, Lestrade reflects as the riding crop bites into his skin, even through his layers of clothes. Yes, well, it does hurt, he’ll grant that. And he’ll have some interesting-looking welts across his chest when this is all over. But, in the long run -

  
“ _Shit_ ,” Lestrade hisses in spite of himself - he’d been so good at keeping quiet up until this point - as Moriarty suddenly changes his target area and whips the riding crop across his cheek. He tastes the tang of copper immediately, and the corner of his mouth has been split wide open; he can feel blood begin to trickle down his jaw and snake down his neck, curling around to lick at his collar bone.

  
“Have your attention now, do I?” Moriarty drawls. “I was beginning to think that I’d lost it. You seem - _preoccupied_.”

  
“Just - thinking about all the paperwork you’re keeping me from,” Lestrade replies as coolly as he can manage. “D’you think you could hurry it up? I have things to do.”

  
“You’re _bold_ , Inspector. I like that.”

  
“Do you? How fascinating. Please, tell me more.”

  
The smart remark earns him another violent crack with the riding crop, but _damn_ had it felt good to say.

  
“I grow tired of your insolence, Lestrade.”

  
“Yeah, well, I grow tired of listening to you talk. Since we’re both in agreement, why don’t you release me? I can be a hell of a headache if I put my mind to it, and I’m sure you have better things to do.”

  
Moriarty draws the tip of the riding crop down Lestrade’s cheek, and he spends several long moments considering his captive. Lestrade meets his gaze unwaveringly, and it occurs to him that it’s an interesting parallel. The riding crop is one of the more eccentric tools that Sherlock uses at Bart’s. He wonders if Moriarty knows about Sherlock’s odd preference for it, and then realizes it’s an idiotic question. There’s very little, Lestrade imagines, that Moriarty does without a reason. He's so very much like Sherlock in that respect, but Lestrade doesn’t like making that connection and quickly pushes it from his mind.

  
  
“No, I don’t think I’m going to do that,” Moriarty says finally, and the riding crop comes to rest against Lestrade’s clavicle. It rests there, quivering as though it’s vibrating with energy, ready to strike at any moment. But Moriarty does nothing further; he’s simply watching, now, as though contemplating his next move.  


  
Lestrade shifts slightly under the unblinking gaze and winces as the rough fabric of his shirt is dragged across his abused skin. He can feel the bruises beginning to form on his chest and he wonders, absurdly, if they will look like those that form on Sherlock’s corpses. The detective will want to study them, Lestrade knows, when this is all over.  


  
The image floats unbidden across his mind - Sherlock, curled up next to him on the bed, elegant fingers tracing the welts that crisscross Lestrade’s chest, murmuring something about the speed at which the riding crop hit him; the force with which it was applied. He’d probably deduce from that Moriarty’s shoe size or what he had for breakfast that day. It’d fascinate him, and Lestrade can see him, piercing eyes wide with wonder and lips parted ever so slightly, drinking in the scene before him. Lestrade, vulnerable and quiet under his probing fingers, his body a road-map of _Moriarty_ \- oh, yes, Sherlock would find that fascinating indeed.  


  
“You’re thinking about him, aren’t you?” Moriarty says in an almost-tender voice that sends chills up Lestrade’s spine.

  
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Lestrade says impatiently, and moves his head away from the riding crop. “And get that out of my face.”  


  
The next _crack_ stuns him momentarily, the blow having been landed across the side of his head.

  
“I’ll do with this what I _like_ , Inspector,” Moriarty whispers. “Now - tell me about our friend. I’m ever so curious.”

  
“He’s no more your friend than he is mine,” Lestrade retorts.

  
“Now, come, Lestrade - I know you’re a bit _dim_ , but do you really think you can pull one over on me? Especially with something as blatant as _that_. How long have you been sleeping with him?”

  
Lestrade laughs aloud; this time, he can’t help it. “I’m not.”

  
“You know, if there’s one thing I can’t abide, my dear, it’s _lying_.”

  
“Then I’ll be sure not to lie to you, won’t I?” Lestrade tries to again shift imperceptibly in his chair; the ropes are biting into his skin and he’s beginning to lose feeling in his legs. “Besides, you’re the genius - you tell me.”

  
Moriarty smirks, and a moment later he slams his fist into Lestrade’s nose. It begins bleeding instantly and Lestrade makes a choked noise in the back of his throat - a grunt of pain that he manages to swallow back in time.

  
“I’m afraid that’s not how this works, Lestrade. Look at me.” Moriarty seizes Lestrade by his lapels and pulls him forward, forcing him to sit up straight. “ _I_ ask the questions, and _you_ answer them. Are we _clear_ , my dear?”

  
Lestrade sniffs back a bit of blood and says, “This shirt was new, you know, and I was actually rather fond of it _without_ the blood down the front. I’ll be sending you the bill, you can be sure of that.”

  
He gets a blow to the gut for that one, but it doesn’t stop him chuckling even as a shadowy corner of his mind begins to wonder how much longer he’ll be able to keep it up. For Sherlock, he hopes long enough.

  
xxxx  


  
The rope is next, and that quickly stamps out Lestrade’s grim mirth.  


  
Moriarty doesn’t speak through it all - doesn’t need to. He’s _working_ , Lestrade realizes, and he can’t be bothered to interrupt the art he is creating with something as pedestrian as talk. It’s another comparison to Sherlock that he has to push forcibly from his mind.

  
Moriarty stands behind the chair, where Lestrade can’t see him, and loops a rope around his neck so that it’s pressing gently against his skin, just below his Adam’s apple. For a while - twenty seconds, thirty seconds, perhaps a minute - he lets it rest there. And then he pulls.

  
It’s slow, agonizingly slow - the rope digs carefully into Lestrade’s skin and his heart grows increasingly louder in his ears. Blood pulses in his neck, beating against the rope, and his breaths grow increasingly ragged. He quells the panic for as long as he’s able, forcing it down, willing his heart to slow - but then comes the point when even ragged breaths become nonexistent and he’s flaring his nose and nothing is coming through.

  
His chest strains and burns with the lack of air and he thrashes against his will, straining against his bonds as much as he is able, trying to escape the pull and only making it worse for himself in the end. The panic is difficult to mask once all oxygen stops flowing into his lungs, and all other thoughts flee from his mind. Sherlock, Moriarty, the dank room - all of it is irrelevant as the world around him fades to a single point.

  
Moriarty pulls him to the brink of oblivion more than once, waiting until Lestrade’s vision starts to tunnel and his movements become jerky and erratic before releasing him. Lestrade falls forward, slumping in his bonds as he drags great gulps of the warm, damp air into his lungs. He’s allowed a brief reprieve while Moriarty runs the rope through his hands, reverent; caressing it as he would a lover, and just as the world around him begins to clear the rope makes another appearance around his throat and the ritual begins again.

  
The third time it happens, a weak protest slips out - more a sound than an actual word, but understood in any language - before Lestrade can catch himself. He feels Moriarty smile, but the man continues to say nothing as the rope tightens its grip once more. He knows Moriarty has no intention to kill him just yet - but, each time, as the rope closes around his abused windpipe, he can’t help wondering if it’s the last.

  
“I can keep going, you know,” a voice whispers in Lestrade’s ear just as his chest is beginning to burn. His head is tilted back and he’s slammed his teeth together so hard that they feel about to crack; he hears, distantly, muffled by the pounding in his ears, strangled whimpers that skitter up the scale until they are indistinguishable from a child’s. It takes several moments for him to realize that they come from his own throat and he clamps down on them furiously, drawing on the last of his reserves to grind out a sentence because it is infinitely better than the plaintive noises that are alien to his ear.

  
“ _You won’t_.”

  
“What was that?” Moriarty’s grip slackens, and Lestrade sucks frantically at the air, taking in as much as he can before it’s denied to him once more. His head surpassed the point of throbbing ages ago - it’s pounding so loudly now that he’s surprised Moriarty hasn’t yet commented on the noise.

  
“You - won’t,” he grinds out between gasps, “kill me - yet.”

  
“Oh?” Moriarty is coiling the rope through his hands again; Lestrade can hear the tell-tale sound of (burlap) running over skin. “Please do enlighten me; I would _love_ to hear what brought you to this amusing conclusion.”

  
“Because,” Lestrade lifts his head up, staring out across the darkened room, forcing his words forward even as he’s still gasping, “I _amuse_ you. And - if you don’t have - me, then Sherlock won’t come - for you. That _is_ what you want, isn’t it?”

  
He snaps it out as viciously as he can, but it just sounds weak to his ears. Moriarty chuckles and moves away. Lestrade hears the rope being set down on the table and, against his will, he feels his heart unclench ever so slightly.

  
Moriarty comes around to the front of the chair and bends at the waist, far too close for Lestrade’s liking - close enough that the DI catches a whiff of fresh soap from the man’s hair, and the scent is jarring. Moriarty, consulting criminal, madder quite possibly than even Sherlock and the man who recruited unwilling suicide bombers because he was _bored_ , deigning to take something as _human_ as a shower. His eyes fixate on Lestrade’s neck for some moments - seconds or minutes, he can’t tell - and he runs the tip of his tongue across his lips, reminiscent of a snake.

  
Lestrade jerks his head back as Moriarty reaches out a hand but the man only touches his neck, running a finger along the lines that have been cut in there by the rope. His thin lips pull into an appreciative smile. Lestrade can only imagine the state of his neck - deep bands of purple and pink burnt into the skin, overlapping one another until it looks like a collar made of bruises.

  
“Beautiful.” Moriarty traces a finger around the outside of Lestrade’s ear once his examination of his handiwork is complete, and the hairs at the base of Lestrade’s neck stand on end. “That is what Sherlock calls you, isn’t it? _Beautiful_.”

  
“You clearly don’t know him _at all_ if you think he’s one to go in for such...endearments,” Lestrade whispers back, voice reminiscent of a record after the strain of the rope - rough, with an underlying hiss in the background.

  
Moriarty continues as though he hasn’t heard. “I wonder what he’d think if he could see you now - d’you think he’d like it? I do _so hope_ he will.”

  
“Seeing as he doesn’t make a regular habit of choking me, no, I can’t say that he will.”

  
“But he does like to keep you _in your place_ , doesn’t he? That’s simply all I’ve done here. Kept you in your place like the dog that you are. Now, Greg - it _is_ Greg, isn’t it?”

  
“Surely my first name isn’t something that’s slipped your surveillance. If so, well, I would think about getting a new career.”

  
“I don’t recall asking for commentary on my methods, dear. And yes, of course I know your name is Greg. But is that what they _call_ you?”

  
“What business is that of yours?” Lestrade retorts, and earns himself a crack across the jaw. _That_ one stings and there’s a soft _click_ just below his ear as he works his mouth, making sure that it hadn’t been broken. Pain blossoms up the side of his head but he can still move the joint; so, nothing broken.

  
“I _also_ don’t recall giving you permission to ask the questions,” Moriarty whispers.

  
Lestrade bites the inside of his cheek and finally mutters, “They call me Lestrade.”

  
Moriarty smiles and pats his cheek; Lestrade flinches. “Good, _good_. See, now, that wasn’t so bad. And is that what Sherlock calls you?”

  
Lestrade doesn’t answer; Moriarty grabs him by the chin, yanking his head forward.

  
“Answer me,” he growls, charm vanishing. “What does _he_ call you, Lestrade? I’d _rather not_ get it wrong, you see.”

  
Incompetent. Foolish. Imbecilic. Moronic. And, on one memorable occasion, sycophant, which John had discreetly looked up on his phone while Sherlock raged. Lestrade has come to realize, over the years, that the angrier Sherlock gets, the more obscure his vocabulary becomes.

  
But - well, there are always exceptions to the rule, especially where Sherlock Holmes is concerned. At the crime scene, on the phone, at the Yard, he’s called “Lestrade” by the detective. Once in a while it becomes “Detective Inspector,” but on Sherlock’s tongue it’s mocking more than anything else. He’s shortened to “L” in text messages.

  
And now and again - in the first moments after sleep, when they are wrapped lazily in the last vestiges of night and half-concealed from one another; in the hospital, when one of them is full of painkillers and the other is drugged on worry; in the aftermath of the nightmare - he becomes “Greg.”

  
No. Moriarty can’t have that. He can take everything else - and likely he will - but that name belongs to Sherlock.

  
It’s too late - Moriarty has taken his silence for confirmation of his first guess and is drawing back, a slow smile beginning to bloom on his face.

  
“How dear. The world’s only consulting detective - and the only person on _planet_ who uses your first name. Isn’t that right? Oh, how wonderfully cliché and so very _Sherlock_. It’s not good enough for him to simply follow - he has to _lead_. Forge his own path.” Moriarty draws closer. “Now you see, Greg, why he and I are so similar. Why he would ever waste time on someone as unremarkable as _you_ \- well, when I’m done with you and he’s seen my work, he’ll be wondering the very same thing.

  
“So, Greg, what shall I do to you next? What do you think Sherlock will like?” There’s a clatter on the table, and a moment later Moriarty says, “I’m a bit partial to this, myself.”

Something is pressed into Lestrade’s neck. It’s only when he feels the sharp prick of his skin and sees a glint out of the corner of his eye that he realizes it’s a knife.


	2. Chapter 2

  
For some reason, the cool nip of the knife into his skin is all that it takes for the pieces to fall into place, and Lestrade realizes that he’s been spending too much time around Sherlock because the first thing he thinks is, _oh, elegant_.

  
The next thing he thinks is, _shit_ , and that’s much more fitting.

  
“What?” Moriarty demands, because a slow grin has spread across Lestrade’s face and that’s probably not a good reaction to someone holding a knife to your throat. “What is it you find so amusing?”

  
“You - the fact that you’re just as fucked up as Sherlock says,” Lestrade giggles to himself. “I mean, you have to admit that he’s got a flair for the dramatic and you’re never really sure if what he’s telling you is real, but this is really too good. He didn’t quite give you enough credit for your insanity. You’re _in love_ with him.

  
“Well, not really, I mean, you haven’t really got the faintest idea what _love_ means, do you? I suppose “obsessed” is the better word,” Lestrade rattles on, picking up speed and careening headfirst into dangerous territory. “But that’s what this is all about, isn’t it? This whole big show - it’s all for him. Trying to get his attention. Trying to _prove_ that you’re worthy. You’re like - like a giant peacock, hoping to catch his eye.”

  
“You’re quite wrong, my dear,” Moriarty says softly, but the charming glint has left his eye.

  
“The pool wasn’t enough - the bombs and the game didn’t hold his attention after it was all over, so you wanted to know what you’d done wrong. You went back to the drawing board - you came up with this. But you made a crucial error, you see.”

  
“Please, enlighten me,” Moriarty says dryly. Lestrade’s smile fades from his face; he becomes instantly grim.

  
“You took John Watson.”

  
Moriarty gives an indulgent smile, as though he is dealing with a child. “No, it would seem that I have _you_.”

  
“No, the first time. You took John Watson - and then it stopped being a game. Sherlock stopped being amused by you the moment you struck too close to home, and you can’t comprehend that. You can’t understand why it would _matter_. So you decided to go for someone else close to him, because  you’ve got it in your head that that’s where the mistake occurred. I reckon Mycroft’s a bit out of reach, even for someone like you, so you chose me. Well, it’ll get his attention, all right. I’ll grant you that. But not _quite_ in the way you want, I fear.”

  
Moriarty flashes a grin. “I’m amused that you think yourself so important that Sherlock will come after you, _guns blazing_.”

  
Lestrade gives a weary smile. “I’m operating under no such delusion. He won’t come for me, and nor should he. But you’ve struck him twice, now. He won’t tolerate it. When this is all over - whether I’m alive or not - I’d be very careful if I were you.”

  
Moriarty gives a bark of a laugh. The sound is rough, and incongruent with his up-till-now silky voice.“You’re more of a fool than Sherlock gives you credit for, Greg, if you believe that mortality is of any concern to me; if you believe that _Sherlock Holmes_ is enough to give me pause. He may come all he likes – he may even kill me one of these days, though I _highly_ doubt that, since he simply isn’t clever enough – but it wouldn’t make any difference. I’m in his head already, you see. We are _one_ , and we always have been, whether I’m around or not. He’s been given a taste of what’s out there for him. Now he’s going to be wanting more, _craving_ more. I intend to either indulge him or play with him; either should prove sufficiently _stimulating_.

  
“In the meantime, though, I believe that it is _you_ who should be careful.”

  
“Why’s that, then?” Lestrade says waspishly, irritated at his predicament and the whisper of worry that flits across his mind at Moriarty’s chilling words. He lashes out carelessly in anger. “‘Cause there’s a knife pressed into my neck? You seem to have a very poor memory, then, because _I_ distinctly remember a night in April when I was surrounded by three of your men, all of them armed. And which one of us got out of that one alive? Oh, right - _me_.”

  
Moriarty clearly doesn’t realize - or doesn’t care, but Lestrade highly doubts that - that this is Lestrade uneasy. The bravado, the refusal to follow even the simplest of instructions, the rambling sentences that are just too quick to be casual speech - all of them point to a very concerned DI.

  
Sherlock would have recognized it. There are very few things the detective notices when it comes to humanity in general, but when Lestrade is involved - Sherlock notices that.

  
“I was rather _fond_ of those men,” Moriarty says quietly, and Lestrade snorts.

  
“You’re not fond of anything. You’re just put out because you have to go and find new ones.”

  
“You’re talkative tonight, Greg.” The pressure of the knife against his neck increases; when he swallows, the blade digs into his skin. “And, I admit, a bit disappointing after that promising start. You haven’t quite screamed enough for my _satisfaction_ , my dear.”

  
A terrible, awful, unwise thought occurs to Lestrade.

  
He’s never been able to really say no to terrible, awful, unwise thoughts.

  
“No, I suppose not,” he whispers, and then his lips twist into a terrible, awful, unwise smile. “I _used up_ all my screaming with Sherlock last night.”

  
The knife stills, which means that he’s given the man pause - _good_ \- but when Moriarty speaks next he sounds unimpressed. “Well, that may be the case, dear Greg, but you are mine now - and _I_ intend to be the one to make you scream.”

  
In one quick movement he has reached around and sliced through the ropes binding Lestrade’s wrists. Lestrade flinches initially as the knife disappears, only to be relieved when suddenly the pressure around his wrists vanishes. He brings his hands around in front of him, massaging the lines left behind, hissing as his shoulders protest the sudden movement. The damage has been slight, he notices. He’ll have some bruising when this is all over – and it _will_ be over, sometime – but the blood flow hadn’t been cut off.

  
“Hold out your hands,” Moriarty says sharply.

  
“Why?” Lestrade says automatically, without really registering the words until they’ve left his mouth.

  
Moriarty smacks him across the side of the face with the flat side of his blade. It slices into his skin, stinging like a paper cut, and comes dangerously close to his eye. Lestrade recoils.

  
“Hold out your hands,” he repeats. After a moment, Lestrade unfolds his hands and holds them out flat, suspended in the air. There isn’t, he notes, even the slightest of tremors in his fingers.

  
He’ll take what small victory he can, today.

  
“Now,” Moriarty says, tapping the side of the knife lightly across the back of his fingers, “which one of them would you like to lose?”

  
“What?” Lestrade blurts before he can stop himself, reflexively balling his hands into tight fists. He earns a nick to the shoulder for that, and blood soaks into his shirt.

  
“ _Choose_ , Lestrade, or you shall lose all of them.”

  
“You can’t just ask -”

  
“Yes, I can.” Moriarty leans down and whispers into his ear. “It’s incredible, really, the lengths that humans will go to survive. You _will_ choose a finger, Greg. You will do that and _so much more_ because, deep down, you just want to _live_. You may think you’re being noble, keeping me distracted so that I don’t touch your precious _master_ \- oh, yes, I noticed that - but, really, the only reason you're listening to me is so you keep your life. So - _choose_.”

  
No. He couldn’t. How could he? There must be another way -

  
“Do it!” Moriarty hisses, and Lestrade jerks back.

  
His mind flutters, grasping at straws, looking for another way out - could he tip over the chair? His hands are free - can he try to wrestle the knife from Moriarty? Is Moriarty alone? What if he manages to overpower him, only to be felled by hidden snipers? Then he would be dead and Moriarty would be free to go after Sherlock - if he hasn’t already, that is. Lestrade’s brain stutters to a stop, faced with too many possibilities and no clear-cut solution.

 _Think of Sherlock._

  
Sherlock, who prefers to have the flat cold at night so he can pile under an ungodly number of blankets.

  
Sherlock, stretched out on the sofa with an abandoned book on his chest, one leg on the floor and an arm flung across his eyes, basking in the late afternoon sun that streams through the windows.

  
Sherlock, alive and well.

  
And so Lestrade begins to wonder - all right, what can he do without? Thumbs are necessary, and the first two fingers are used most often, especially on his right hand.

  
Pinky? Possibly, but it can come in handy for stabilizing a grip. Same goes for the ring finger, but that still seems like the better option - _better option; how can he be thinking about better options? They’re all necessary, aren’t they?_ \- and besides, he’ll never need it for what it’s named after, anyway.

  
Then he remembers why he is thinking such morbidly amusing things and feels ill.

  
“Which one, Greg?” Moriarty whispers, drawing the tip of the knife across Lestrade’s clavicle.

  
“Fourth,” he croaks, but it’s barely distinguishable - even to his own ears.

  
“What was that?”

  
“Fourth,” he repeats dully, tapping it with his thumb on his left hand and how can he even be saying this? Has he gone mad? “Fourth finger.”

  
“Fourth finger,” Moriarty breathes, grasping the finger and pulling it back. Lestrade tries to jerk away but he holds fast, tapping the knife against it thoughtfully. “Delightful. Good choice, my dear. Now, let’s see - at which knuckle? Or between the knuckles, perhaps. Yes, perhaps...”

  
There’s nothing quick and easy about it, no sudden slice that takes off the digit and leaves him numb with shock before the pain has a chance to set in. Instead, Moriarty saws at the finger, gripping the tip of it firmly in his fist as Lestrade reflexively tries to yank away. The madman watches impassively as blood spurts from the finger with each sure sweep of the blade. Some of it splatters his wrist; most of it ends up on Lestrade’s clothing. The knife goes through tissue and muscle and it _hurts_ , God, does it ever - thick tendrils of pain shoot up Lestrade’s arm and his stomach threatens to rebel at the sight of his finger slowly being separated from the rest of his body but he can’t bring himself to look away.

  
Lestrade has to bite down hard on his lip to keep silent and doesn’t realize that his teeth have cut straight through until he’s gagging on a sudden mouthful of blood. And then the knife hits the bone and Lestrade lets out a string of curses and as he’s trying to pull his hand away in one direction Moriarty jerks it in the other, snapping the delicate phalanx clean in two. The finger hangs on now by a thin mass of pulp and tissue, which comes off with three quick strokes of the knife. Moriarty steps back, holding it with a faint look of triumph on his face, and blood leaks from the end of the severed digit, dripping methodically onto the floor.

  
Realization hits along with a fresh batch of pain and shock and Lestrade leans away, as far from the chair as he can, retching as he rides out a wave of nausea. He brings nothing up, having neglected eating a proper meal for some time now. Moriarty sniffs in disdain at his display and turns away, strolling over to the table with the finger.

  
“I wonder,” he murmurs to himself, and it sounds so far away. “Yes, I think - I think Sherlock will quite like this one. _Wonderful_ choice, Greg. I’m so pleased.”

  
“Leave him - alone,” Lestrade gasps out. There is a pressure on his hand, and when his vision clears enough he looks over to see Moriarty wrapping gauze around what remains of it. Good _lord_ , he’s not sure he’s ever seen so much blood come out of his body in one sitting. He looks away again as the world lurches and the room fades in and out of focus, and a moment later a wave of darkness snuffs out the rest of his awareness.

  
The air is cool and clammy when Lestrade next wakes; the finger, gone. Moriarty is standing before him, as impeccable as ever, one hand behind his back and the other casually twirling the knife by the blade. He has no concept of how much time has passed, and at the sight of the weapon can feel nothing but a dull weariness. He cannot even summon the energy for acute fear, although a dull ache sits in his chest; a knot that hasn’t eased since the evening began.

  
“I take it that wasn’t the grand finale,” he manages in a dry croak, his voice a mere shade of what it had been at the start of the ordeal.

  
“My dear, we’re only getting _started_ ,” Moriarty murmurs.


	3. Chapter 3

  
There are sounds, Lestrade comes to realize over the course of the night (was it  
night still?), that humans should not be able to make. There’s the one he had  
made when Moriarty casually sliced off his finger – which he can only assume is  
on its way to Sherlock, now, seeing as it was no longer there when he regained  
consciousness after that particular episode. There’s the half-stifled whimper  
that slipped from him when Moriarty grasped him by the elbow and dislocated his  
shoulder – and then, later, popped it back into place.

  
There’s the muffled yelp that escaped when the consulting criminal strolled behind the back of his chair and calmly snapped two of his remaining fingers, rendering his left hand quite useless. There’s  
the one that he managed to hold back as a knife bit into his cheek and Moriarty  
licked the blood from its blade, muttering something about O-positive and how  
that is so typically _Sherlock_.

  
And there’s the one that he makes now, low and resounding through his skull, as  
he drags himself back to consciousness after a particularly vicious session  
with the knife. There’s blood in his eyes, a wound in his leg, and a _M_  
engraved on his hip - Moriarty had kissed it, ever so tenderly, after brutally  
carving it in. The spot still sears with the aftermath of the touch of lips.

  
It was hard waking the first time he fell unconscious; this time, it feels like  
an impossible task. His eyelids are lead and his tongue feels swollen;  
sluggish. And _this_ sound is wrong, this one that tears from his throat  
as he’s waking. It’s a groan, yes, but it’s sickly, like one that should belong  
to a dying animal. Lestrade drags open his eyes and, finding that he can’t  
focus on anything, shuts them once more. He licks his lips - _slowly, too  
slowly_ \- and knows that something is wrong even as his mind is still  
swimming through the lingering haze of unconsciousness.

  
“What’ve - you done?” he asks, and the words have to be dragged from his  
throat.

  
“Ah! You’re finally awake. Good, _good_.” Moriarty steps close and traces  
a long finger down Lestrade’s neck. He tries to shrink away from it and finds  
that the world has slowed. By the time his body has reacted to his command,  
Moriarty’s fingers are already toying with the top button of his shirt. “I took  
the liberty of slipping a little something into your bloodstream while you were  
unconscious - just a little _concoction_ I whipped up to make you a bit  
more complacent. Because as much fun as you are when you’re spitting mad, my  
dear, I would rather _not_ have to fight you every step of the way on this  
one. I want to _enjoy_ myself, you see.”

  
Moriarty has the shirt undone by the time Lestrade next blinks - “ _Well_ ,  
I can certainly begin to see why Sherlock’s kept you around as long as he has”  
\- and then his hands are moving to Lestrade’s belt, viciously palming the front  
of his trousers along the way. The ropes come off next, both at the feet and at  
the wrists, and Moriarty hauls him from the chair with a hand on his elbow.  
Lestrade finds his limbs boneless and barely responsive and the only thing that  
crosses his mind as Moriarty grabs him by the hips, tugging him closer, is _sorry_.

  
He swallows the sounds that build in the back of his throat over the course of  
the assault– frenzied sounds that instead echo in his head because he _will  
not_ allow them to give him away – as Moriarty thrusts into him, deep and  
fast, tearing him apart. There are the sounds he holds back as blood and fluids  
snake down the back of his legs and Moriarty bites into his shoulder, muffling  
his cry. There are the sounds of fury, primal and raw, as Moriarty pulls on him  
with each powerful snap of his own hips until they are coming in tandem.

  
“Wonderful,” Moriarty whispers later, when Lestrade is back in the chair and  
the bindings have been replaced. He’d been carelessly redressed by his captor’s rough hands because his are too damaged – and too slow – to manage it. The  
clothes are now ill-fitting, and that irritates him more than Moriarty’s  
satisfied smile; more than the fact that the madman’s scent now clings to him  
just as uncomfortably. Moriarty draws a finger down the side of his face. “Now  
he and I share _everything_."

  
Lestrade again fights the impulse to correct him, and this time it isn’t very difficult  
to shoot down because he’s just too damn _tired_  
and sore to care that Moriarty has it all wrong. He gives a noncommittal hum  
and tries to crack his shoulder, which Moriarty had wrenched horribly in the  
wrong direction during the assault and which now is sending tendrils of pain  
shooting down his arm in indignant protest.

  
“Now, Greg.” Moriarty has stepped behind the chair without Lestrade having realized  
it. He feels a pressure on his thumb – one of the two remaining undamaged  
fingers on his left hand.

  
He tenses, realizing that Moriarty is gripping it between his own thumb and  
forefinger, and lets out a startled, “Don’t!”

  


  
“Ah, very good,” Moriarty says, and Lestrade can hear his smirk. “You’re learning.  
Now, I would very much _love_ for you to tell me about Sherlock. I’m afraid we never got to finish our earlier… _conversation_.”

  
“I doubt I can add anything to what – your surveillance teams have already told you,” Lestrade gasps out as the fingers tighten; teasing. It sends him stumbling over his words.

  
“That’s very likely true, but I want to hear it from _you_. Sherlock’s pet, and now mine. What a fascinating perspective  
you must have. What can _you_ tell me about him?”

  
“Nothing,” Lestrade says wearily.

  
“I don’t think that’s _quite_ true, my dear.”

  
No, it isn’t, but there are some things Lestrade _will_ keep to himself, even if it kills him. Moriarty has no right  
to know anything about Sherlock. He has no right to know about Sherlock in the aftermath of a nightmare, pale features slick with sweat, leaning into Lestrade’s touch and allowing himself a brief respite in the older man’s arms. He has no right to know what Sherlock looks like in sleep; no right to hear the hauntingly gorgeous notes that Sherlock pulls from the Stradivarius; no right to know how Sherlock likes his tea (which Lestrade prides himself in being able to make to the detective’s exacting standards).

  
He has no right to know about the unconventionality of their relationship; no right to know that they may share a bed now and again but sex has never been part of it and never will be; no right to know that Lestrade’s feelings for the detective run deep and that’s all he’ll say about it, because labels aren’t something he spends a good deal of time thinking about and they’d be inadequate, anyway.

  
So Lestrade simply tells him, “I’ve nothing to say,” and a beat later Moriarty  
wraps a fist around his thumb and wrenches it until it snaps. The pain is worse  
this time, somehow – maybe because this is the fourth finger damaged on one  
hand and his resistance is low; maybe because the sound that it makes is  
sickening, like a wet _crack,_ and sends a jolt of nausea through the DI. Either way, it’s some time before his  
world clears of the haze of pain and more time still before the bitter taste of  
bile fades from the back of his throat.

  
“I do hope I’ve made my point,” Moriarty says when Lestrade has sufficiently  
recovered and is once again semi-coherent

  
“And what point is that?” Lestrade finds himself saying wearily, even as a voice in  
the back of his mind screams at him to shut up. He’s feeling careless with  
anger and frustration and right now, there isn’t much more Moriarty can take  
from him. He’d be a fool to think that there was something he could do for  
Sherlock at this point. There’s nothing left to do but wait for it to end –  
however it does – and he’s not going to do that quietly.

  
Moriarty reaches out to touch the side of his face and smirks when he shrinks  
away; Lestrade curses inwardly. “That you should be _very_ careful about  
all that disobedience, Greg. It might land you into trouble one of these days.  
Now do sit tight, my _dear_. I have to go and get something for our next – session."

  
Moriarty is gone for what feels like ages, and Lestrade sits there, growing  
more and more uncomfortable by the moment. His clothes are all wrong; his _skin_ is all wrong. The light from the bare bulb suspended above his head is harsh  
and bores into his head, sending little pinpricks of pain shooting back behind  
his eyes. It buzzes, too, which only adds to his annoyance.

  
There’s a draft in the room from an unseen source and the damp air whispers around him.  
He shivers, the chill exacerbated by the rapidly-drying sweat on his skin, and closes his eyes,  
which are burning with exhaustion. He should be planning an escape, or at least a valiant attempt  
at one, but all he wants right now is to _sleep_.  
And if it happens to be forever, then so much the better.

  
But then there are tendrils of ice slapping at his face, and he’s jerked out of his less-than-restful doze.

  
“I need you awake,” Moriarty is saying harshly, and the fingers continue to  
assault his face until he forces his eyes open and keeps them that way.

  
“Wha’ _for_?” Lestrade asks warily, reflexively jerking his head back and  
away from Moriarty’s hand. His voice is tinged with exhaustion, and sounds  
terribly rough to his ears.

  
“I need to make a phone call.”

  
“Surely you don’t need me for that.” _God_ , is he tired. He wonders  
whether the drugs – whatever they were – have worn off yet, because surely it  
isn’t normal to be this fatigued.

  
“Actually, my dear, I’m afraid that I do.” Moriarty disappears briefly from hisline of sight; when he returns, he’s rolling a table with a laptop on it. He  
positions it in front of Lestrade and indicates the screen. “You must say  
whatever comes up on this screen.”

  
Lestrade licks his lips, debating the merits of his next question, and then  
decides that he’s much too drained to bother with things as tiresome as _caution_.  
He asks, “And if I don’t?”

  
Moriarty gives a long-suffering sigh. “Consider this for a moment, dear Greg:  
Baker Street is not nearly as impenetrable as you might like to delude yourself  
into thinking, even _with_ Mycroft Holmes on the alert. I _strongly_  
suggest that you follow my instructions.” He sets a mobile on the table next to  
the laptop and starts it dialing. “Be sure to sound - _cheerful_.”

  
The phone rings for several long moments, and Lestrade begins to hope that  
whoever is on the other end won’t pick up. Moriarty has another laptop set up  
on the table to Lestrade’s left, and he readies himself by it when there’s a  
sudden click and a thinly-irritated voice rumbles, “Sherlock Holmes.”

  
 _Christ_. The voice turns his veins to ice, and suddenly it’s quite  
difficult to draw breath. How could he have not seen this one coming? He isn’t  
prepared, even Moriarty starts to type and words start to appear on his screen,  
and it takes the madman’s strolling over and raising a hand to his face to  
prompt him into action.

  
“So nice –“ His voice, weakened by his ordeal and shock, comes out in barely  
more than a wheeze. He stops, clears his throat, and tries again. His second  
attempt is more akin to sandpaper, but at least it’s audible.

  
“So nice to speak to you again - my dear,” Lestrade reads haltingly.

  
“Lestrade?” Sherlock sounds surprised – when had he last heard Sherlock _surprised_?  
– and a bit exasperated. “Where the devil have –?”

  
“No,” Lestrade reads, grateful for the opportunity to interrupt the detective.  
He isn’t sure he could have handled hearing the end of the question; isn’t sure  
he could have handled imagining Sherlock, nervous when he didn’t show at the  
scheduled time. Would Sherlock _be_ nervous?  
Concerned? “Not quite.”

  
The pause is sickening.

  
“Moriarty.”

  
“So good of you to think of me,” Lestrade reads from the screen, and unwittingly  
his mind fills in the missing inflections. He hears Moriarty’s voice in his  
skull, echoing the stumbling words that come from his mouth. “Though I must say  
that I’m a bit disappointed it took you a moment to guess. Am - am I really so  
forgettable?”

  
“What is it you want?”

  
“To chat, Sherlock.” Lestrade tries to make the words as flat as possible, but  
it does nothing to stamp out the terrible voice in his mind. “I wanted to give  
you a little - preview of your surprise.”

  
“Surprise?”

  
“Yes. Your little Detective Inspector has been most entertaining.” Lestrade has  
to bite the inside of his cheek hard in order to keep from letting out a  
despairing noise, and it’s a moment before he can continue. “I can see why you  
keep him around right now, though I must confess that I fail to see why he’s  
held your attention for so long. Five years, has it been?”

  
“Leave him be.” Sherlock’s voice is cool; commanding.

  
“But - we are having - ever so much fun -” Lestrade has trouble forcing the  
words out, and he can feel Moriarty’s gaze dart in his direction. “I would hate  
to - end it so early.”

  
“What is it you want?”

  
“Have you noticed the mole, Sherlock?”

  
There is silence on the other end; Moriarty types another line of text for  
Lestrade.

  
“The mole - on the inside of his left thigh.” Moriarty catches Lestrade’s eye  
and winks. The DI suddenly feels quite ill. “Isn’t it - dear?”

  
Lestrade has never heard Sherlock speechless. He registers first that it’s an  
interesting experience, and then he’s biting back bile as the memories of  
Moriarty’s hands on him bubble to the surface. He manages to overcome the urge  
to be sick and continues, albeit weakly. The topic has, thankfully, shifted away  
from a thorough examination of his body’s idiosyncrasies.

  
“I took the liberty of having a package delivered for you. You should find it  
in the kitchen, if my men followed my instructions.” Lestrade pauses, mind  
reeling at the implications of the sentence, but he hasn’t much time to dwell  
on it because more text has appeared on his screen. “Do open it for me.”

  
Lestrade’s stomach sinks. There comes, distantly, the sound of a knife being  
drawn across cardboard, and he hopes – _God_ , does he hope – that the  
package contains something other than the finger. He knows he’s been needlessly  
fooling himself when there is a lengthy pause and then Sherlock says, in the  
closest Lestrade has ever heard him come to a strangled voice, “Let me speak to  
him.”

  
Lestrade waits for Moriarty’s response on the laptop, but none comes. He  
glances over at the man, and, small smile playing on his thin lips, Moriarty  
gives a quick nod.

 _Oh, God, I can’t do this._

  
The pause has been too great, and Sherlock obviously senses that something out  
of the ordinary is about to happen.

  
“Lestrade,” he demands quickly, as though the opportunity might disappear at  
any moment.

  
“Yeah.” Lestrade licks his lips, eyes flicking to the ceiling. “Yeah, I’m here.”

  
“Are you injured?”

  
“No.”

  
“Lestrade, your finger is sitting on my kitchen table.” How the hell had he  
managed to make that sound _scolding_?

  
Lestrade swallows and nods. “Yeah, all right, maybe a bit.”

  
“Where are you?” And it isn’t like Sherlock to waste his time on foolish questions  
\- questions that he knows Moriarty would never let his captive answer, and  
questions that he knows Lestrade wouldn’t be able to answer to anyway. Briefly,  
this heartens Lestrade, because it means Sherlock feels as lost as he. He’s scared.

  
And then he realizes that _he_ is causing Sherlock this pain; _he_ is  
the one who went and allowed himself to become a liability for the detective.  
The realization slams into his gut with the force of a blow and sits there,  
gnawing away at his insides.

  
He’s so very tired.

  
He’s so very sorry.

  
Had he known, all those years ago, that _he_ would eventually come to  
cause Sherlock harm -

  
“Look, Sherlock.” Lestrade wets his lips, breaking away from the awful train of  
thought. “I – uh – I was going to pick up milk on my way back from work. I –  
used the last of it this morning. I’m –” And he doesn’t know why this is so  
hard to say, but it sticks in the back of his throat and when it finally does  
come out, it sounds terribly foreign to his ears. It’s in a voice far from his  
own, thick and strained. “I’m sorry, but it looks like you’ll have to do it.”  
The part after that – _from now on_ – passes unspoken between them.

  
“I will.”

  
“Good. I’ll see you later then, yeah?” Lestrade casts his gaze ceiling-ward  
again, fighting the slow burn building behind his eyes. “Don’t wait up.”

  
“Greg.”

  
And that one word means more than a thousand and one endearments. It’s a bid  
goodnight and a morning greeting; a declaration and a murmur of affection; a  
playful nudge and a teasing cuff about the head. It’s his beginning and his end  
and his middle.

  
It’s a hello.

  
It’s a farewell.

  
“I know.”

  
Moriarty cuts the line then, smirking, apparently quite pleased with himself.  
He takes in Lestrade’s face, with fresh trails cutting through the grime on his  
cheeks, and giggles about his _surprise_ , wondering aloud whether Sherlock  
truly appreciated his present and what he should send the detective next.

  
Lestrade lets it pass without comment, and for a brief amount of time is even  
able to ignore his fury at the madman. Because for all that Moriarty is and  
was, he had unwittingly given Lestrade the one thing he didn’t even know he had  
needed.

  
He had given them the chance to say goodbye.

  
“ _Very_ impressive, Greg.”

  
Moriarty’s frantic mumblings about Sherlock have given way once more to his  
smooth charm, and when he next enters Lestrade’s field of view he’s again  
holding the knife, which he uses to slice through the ropes that bind  
Lestrade’s wrists.

  
“You were _so_ well-behaved. I think that warrants a little reward, don’t  
you? Stand, and hold out your hands.”

  
Lestrade stands and hesitates, and then flinches as the knife makes a clean cut  
through the air much closer to his eye than he would have liked.

  
“Don’t push me, Greg,” Moriarty warns. “I’m only trying to be kind.”

  
Lestrade can’t flatten his hands; not anymore. Instead, he holds them out,  
palms up and fingers curled, as though begging. Moriarty takes the hand with  
the broken fingers in both of his own and Lestrade swallows, averting his gaze.  
He’s seen broken fingers before – Lord knows he’s had them more than once, too,  
what with one thing and another – but the sight of such a delicate and  
important part of the body being bent at such an unnatural angle has always  
made his stomach turn. He braces himself, waiting for the next blow – the knife  
again, or perhaps another break – but Moriarty does nothing for a very long  
time. He surveys the damage, brows furrowed in a semblance of concern, and then  
after a moment he pulls a roll of bandages from his back pocket. He hesitates – _hesitates_ – and then looks at Lestrade as though silently asking  
permission.

 _What the hell is he playing at?_

  
But there’s little Lestrade can do besides nod and then, with exceeding amounts  
of care, Moriarty begins to bind his broken fingers. It’s nothing close to a  
cure, and the gentle manipulation of his damaged fingers hurts like all hell,  
but when it’s all said and done the breaks have been stabilized and the  
shooting pain has ceased clamoring for his utmost attention.

  
“See?” Moriarty breathes as Lestrade withdraws his newly-bandaged hand from his  
grip, trying not to pull away too quickly but desperate to leave the man’s  
touch. “I’m here to help, Greg; help Sherlock see what he could _be_.  
You’re aiding me in that endeavor, and isn’t that _wonderful_? We’re on  
the same side, here. And since you’re helping me – I’ve repaid you in kind.

  
“Now – what do you think Sherlock would like to receive from you next?”

  
Lestrade just stares at him dumbly, and Moriarty spreads his hands.

  
“I believe he’s intrigued – I’ve caught his attention. Now I need to keep it.  
Tell me – what do you think he’d like from you? An ear, perhaps.” Moriarty  
reaches out to trace the shell of his ear, and Lestrade wills himself to stand  
still. “Or – an eye? A toe? Perhaps another finger – there’s symmetry in that,  
and Sherlock does _so_ love symmetry. We’ll send you to him one piece at a time –  
starting with the fingers. Isn't that elegant? Oh, Sherlock will _love_ this.  
I am _absolutely_ certain of that.”

  
“Yeah,” Lestrade answers dully because really, what else is he supposed to say?  
Maybe Sherlock really _is_ intrigued by it all – stranger things have been  
known to happen, especially where Sherlock is concerned. He doesn’t expect  
Sherlock to come after him, no, but to be sitting at home, _enjoying_ the  
little game…?

  
He forces the thoughts away violently because they just _aren’t_ true and  
quietly says, “Finger,” because it’s a known entity. He’s survived it once; he  
can survive it again.

  
“Very well.” Moriarty flips the knife so that he is holding it by the blade and  
offers it to Lestrade. “I think it’d mean more coming from you. Go ahead.”

  
This shocks Lestrade, finally, from the dull haze that’s been floating around  
his head, muting the rest of the world. It snaps everything back into sharp  
focus. “You can’t be serious.”

  
“Come.” Moriarty’s smile is pleasant. He presses the knife into Lestrade’s  
right and says, in a low purr, “I’ll help you. Place your hand on the table –  
yes, like that, _excellent_.”

  
Moriarty curls his hand around Lestrade’s knife-bearing one and begins to guide  
him. Lestrade shuts his eyes and fights the urge to shove him away.

  
 _Think of Sherlock._

  
Sherlock, who he was able to surprise once - and only once - with tickets to  
the opera (cost a fortune, of course, but he’d do it again in a heartbeat for  
the look on Sherlock’s face).

  
Sherlock, wearing the jeans that only make an appearance on days he isn’t  
working (so, hardly ever), violin tucked under his chin and bow whispering across the strings.

  
Sherlock, eyes glittering as he paces Lestrade’s office, expounding on his  
latest reveal.

  
“Are you scared, Inspector?” the silky voice breathes into his ear.

  
Lestrade manages a crooked smile and opens his eyes.

  
“Yes,” he whispers.

  
“Good. Perhaps you’ve learned something from this after all.” Moriarty pats his  
cheek; Lestrade flinches at the contact and forces his mind elsewhere as the  
knife nears his doomed finger – pinky, this time, it would seem. “It’s _so_  
wonderful to see you cooperating. I’m glad you finally understand the  
importance of my work – and how central your role is. He’s going to become _great_ ,  
and it’ll all be thanks to you. We share so much now, he and I – how could he  
refuse?”

  
Moriarty ducks his head and presses a burning kiss to Lestrade’s neck, dragging  
teeth along the already-abused skin while he touches the cool blade of the knife to the base of Lestrade's finger.

 _Think of Sherlock._

  
Lestrade forces his mind away again, and thinks of the moments that he’ll never  
see.

  
Sherlock, in the country, tending to the bees that he has always found so  
fascinating.

  
Sherlock, as spry at sixty as he is now at thirty, black curls a shocking white  
but eyes still the same as ever.

  
Sherlock, at peace.

  
Sherlock, safe.

  
“Very good,” Moriarty whispers as the knife slowly begins to saw at Lestrade’s  
pinky. Blood splatters onto the DI’s lips, and he reflexively licks it away.  
Moriarty’s mouth moves to his earlobe and he gives a throaty chuckle; Lestrade  
lets out a ragged _ah_ at the sensation before biting down hard on his  
lip. Moriarty wraps his other arm around Lestrade’s waist, tucking his hand  
into the front of the DI’s trousers and caressing the soft flesh. Lestrade  
jerks back in alarm and the knife stutters across his finger; he yelps. “You’re  
doing _so well_.”

  
The finger comes off around the time that Moriarty moves his attention from  
Lestrade’s neck to his shoulder and as a tell-tale bulge starts to press  
against his thigh. Lestrade is too drained to react to the pain or to the sight  
of blood flowing from his wrecked hand, which Moriarty stems quickly while at  
the same time readjusting his trousers. He then binds the wound tightly, new  
bandages overlapping the old and fresh blood seeping through almost  
immediately. Lestrade’s knees give out as he examines his broken hand and he  
collapses back into his chair as the madman coos and whirls and replaces the  
restraints, rambling about gifts and surprises and Sherlock.

  
Lestrade drifts, letting the senseless words whirl about him, and vaguely he  
comes to register an absence in the room. Moriarty has vanished, and for a  
moment he finds this intriguing. Then he loses interest once more and the world  
fades to a single point. It’s not exactly sleep and not exactly consciousness –  
dimly, he is aware of the damp air and the hand that feels lighter than the  
other. He _knows_ what’s around him; it just doesn’t compute.

  
He’s roused an hour or a moment later by a pressure on his chest, and he opens  
his eyes to a world gone grey. It takes several moments of blinking in order to  
establish some semblance of clarity, and when he does he notices that Moriarty  
is slipping a heavy vest over him, one large enough to encompass the back of  
the chair as well. Wires protrude out of the thick material, and he recognizes  
it almost at once.

  
It’s a bomb.

  
“So lovely to see you awake again, my dear,” Moriarty whispers in that  
almost-tender voice. “I was worried, for a moment.”

  
“No, you weren’t,” Lestrade mutters, voice gone thin and raspy.

  
“Oh, but I was. It wouldn’t do any good for you to die on me _now_. We  
haven’t gotten to the best part yet. Now,” he tightens the clasps on the vest,  
deft fingers doing up the fastenings, “if I’ve timed this correctly – and I’m _sure_  
that I have – Mycroft Holmes and his men will soon be storming the building.”

  
“What?” Lestrade says blankly. Moriarty smirks.

  
“Did you _really_ think that Sherlock wouldn’t come? I’ve caught his  
attention, especially with that latest gift. I made sure my courier took a  
route that is positively _littered_ with Mycroft’s little cameras.  
Wouldn’t want to make it too hard on them, now, would we? Sherlock’s _dying_  
for a meeting at this point, and, after all, I _did_ say that I would return you to him.”

  
Moriarty spreads his hands, grinning.

  
“What’s this for, then?” Lestrade asks. He’s too drained at the moment to feel  
anything other than annoyance at the bomb. Really, after all that – Moriarty  
can’t think he’s able to simply walk _away_ , can he?

  
“Ah, that’s the beautiful part in all of this. You won’t understand right now,  
unfortunately, and perhaps you won’t ever get the chance to do so. But I will  
tell you this.” He points to the laptop sitting on the table just off to  
Lestrade’s left. “When I set the countdown, there is _nothing_ short of  
sheer brilliance that can stop it. Sherlock will try, and he will most likely  
fail. He can’t get you out any other way. If you try to move, or if he tries to  
remove the bomb, it will go off. All he _can_ do is try to break that  
code. It’s that simple.”

  
“Great,” Lestrade mumbles. This is _just_ how he wanted to end his day. Or  
night. Whichever one it was, now.

  
“Now, my dear,” Moriarty whispers, “I’m setting the countdown for – oh, twenty  
minutes. I _do_ want to have a little chat with the boy before sending him  
your way. I won’t keep him for long – well, I’ll _try_ not to, anyway.”

  
“What’s the point of all this?” Lestrade snaps finally. “I don’t _understand_.”

  
“No, you wouldn’t, would you?” Moriarty muses softly, and for a moment looks  
genuinely contemplative. “I suppose it’s a bit beyond you. I do get so very  
bored, you see.”

  
“That’s _it_?”

  
“That’s _everything_ , my dear Greg.” Moriarty touches his cheek, his  
features for once a mask of stone. “Now, don’t forget: I’m the only one who  
knows how to break the code; I’m the only one who can shut off the countdown."

  
“Why are you telling me –“

  
Moriarty pats his cheek once and turns away. “For future reference. You might  
find the information – useful. Now do sit tight. I’m just going to pop off and  
have a _quick_ chat with Sherlock. They should be here – ah, yes, any  
second now.”

  
He pulls the table over so that Lestrade can see the laptop; a small digital  
clock is set up next to it, its glowing numbers reading _00:20:00._ Moriarty taps a button that start the countdown and then  
strolls away into the shadows, hands tucked casually into the pockets of his  
trousers, as a terrible cacophony erupts on the roof above Lestrade’s head.

  
It’s gunfire.


	4. Chapter 4

  
It takes Sherlock almost exactly ten minutes to find Lestrade. The gunfire - coming, presumably, from Mycroft’s subordinates as they engaged Moriarty’s men - has quieted by then, and this is something for which Lestrade is eternally grateful. The terrific noise of the gunshots had pounded alongside the throbbing in his head, worsening it and setting his teeth on edge.

  
His eyes are fixed now on the clock set up next to the laptop, whose green numbers have clicked over to just this side of ten minutes. There’s a terrible silence ringing in his ears and he tries to convince himself that quiet is good; quiet means that Sherlock isn’t busy dying a horrific death.

  
He’s not able to convince himself of that for very long, and the silence quickly becomes oppressive.

  
A door swings open somewhere to his left, on the far side of the room, and for a moment after he hears nothing. And then, impossibly, Sherlock comes striding out of the dark, coat flung out behind him like a cape and an awful glint in his piercing eyes.

  
He pauses for the briefest of moments when he catches sight of Lestrade in the chair, and then he propels himself forward once more, mouth thinning to a grim line. But then he steps into the soft circle of light and sees what has happened. His eyes rove over the DI and Lestrade can see him cataloguing, because it’s not just that Sherlock notes the injuries - those would be plain to anyone. No, Sherlock sees beyond that. He sees everything, the whole period of captivity, laid out in his head like a storyboard.

  
Sherlock will know, given enough time (seconds, at the most), why each injury was inflicted. What each one means. He’ll know that there’s more, infinitely more, hidden beneath the suit. He’ll see, without ever having to lay eyes on them, the bite marks in Lestrade’s shoulders and the bruises on his hips.

  
He’ll know, soon enough, that it was all meant for him.

  
When Sherlock’s gaze next flicks back to Lestrade’s face, he looks as though he’s been slapped.

 _Ah. There it is._

  
“Lestrade -” Sherlock starts and then stops. He takes a hesitant step forward, hand outstretched and frozen in mid-air, as though he if he remained still then time would as well. Lestrade can tell that he recognizes the vest (how could he not?) – the same kind of vest that had been strapped onto five other victims.

  
The same kind of vest that had nearly spelled an end for John Watson.

  
“Sherlock Holmes,” Lestrade tells him, a sad smile tugging at the corner of his lips, “has anyone ever told you that you have a terrible habit of arriving late?”

  
“More often than you would think,” Sherlock says briskly, recovering from his rare display of shock almost at once. “What’s he done?”

  
He starts forward again but Lestrade warns him off.

  
“No! Don’t come closer. He’s set this to go off in about – nine minutes, now, but if you try to remove it or me from this chair, it’ll go off sooner.”

  
“I assume it must be wired to this, then.” Sherlock spins on his heel and goes over to the laptop, which he had completely ignored just moments before. He taps a few keys and frowns. “It’s – there’s a series of puzzles. I have to solve them in order to halt the countdown.”

  
“Where are the others?”

  
“Mycroft and his people are currently occupied with Moriarty’s…employees,” Sherlock tells him sharply. “So no, my brother will not be coming in here and dragging me away, much as you may want that. He’ll be kept busy for some time yet. Time enough for me to finish this, at least.”

  
“And Moriarty?” Lestrade asks.

  
“Dead,” Sherlock says curtly.

  
“Did you –”

  
“It’s best not to probe too deeply into that statement, Inspector.”

  
Lestrade nods, swallowing hard. Moriarty did that on purpose, then. He _knew_ he was going to his death. He knew it would be at Sherlock’s hand, and in that way, Sherlock would be the one responsible for Lestrade’s own demise.

  
Damn the man. God _damn_ the man.

  
“Were you hurt?” he asks, and runs his eyes quickly over what he can see of the detective.

  
“No,” Sherlock says distantly, the encryptions holding most of his attention.

  
“Good.” Lestrade nods, brisk. “I can’t imagine how I’d feel if you had been.”

  
Sherlock gives him an unreadable look. “And I don’t have to imagine.”

  
He returns to the laptop, and for a moment there is nothing but the sound of clicking keys because Lestrade can’t think of a response that’s more original than _I’m sorry_ and for what, he’s not entirely sure.

  
Anything. Everything.

  
“How long has it been?” he asks quietly.

  
“Twelve hours,” Sherlock answers.

  
“Only that?” Lestrade gives a disbelieving laugh. “Felt longer, to be honest.”

  
“For others as well,” Sherlock points out solemnly, and something catches in Lestrade’s throat.

  
“It’s good to see you,” he whispers because it’s true, even though he’s sick at this whole situation; even though he’s ill with the knowledge that Sherlock is willingly standing mere steps from a live bomb. Nonetheless, it feels as though he can breathe properly for the first time since this all started, and he can’t help but feel a warm flash of hope as he watches Sherlock peck away at the keyboard. He knows it’s foolish and tries to quell the thoughts with cold fear. There are limits, even, to Sherlock Holmes. This may very well be one of them.

  
“I’ll be willing to indulge your sentimentality, Lestrade, but only once this bomb is disarmed. I hope that’s not too much to ask.”

  
“Actually, yeah, it is. Get the _hell_ out, Sherlock,” he orders, because the one thing he _can_ do is try to spare the man’s life. Sherlock scoffs.

  
“You’re a fool, Lestrade, if you think I’m going to leave when there’s something _interesting_ going on.”

  
And he says it coolly, in his usual clipped timbre, but Lestrade knows it’s a cover. His eyes are moving too quickly; his mouth is too tight. He’s scared.

  
No, it’s more than that – Sherlock is _shattered_. That’s the word. He’d been trying to place the look in Sherlock’s eyes, the taut lines around his mouth, the rumpled clothing. _Shattered_. He’s found Lestrade, but not the Lestrade he had been looking for; not the one who had been lost in the first place.

  
“I’m not going to be all right,” he insists as gently as he can. “You need to get out while you can.”

  
Sherlock straightens suddenly and lifts his chin – defiant. “I don’t think you get to be the judge of that. Now quiet, I’m trying to work.”

  
“No, you _listen_ to me, Sherlock,” Lestrade snaps as he returns his attention to the laptop. “You get yourself out of here. It was good of you to come, but now you need to leave.”

  
“Give me five minutes.”

  
“Five –”And Lestrade can’t do it, he _can’t_ ask Sherlock to leave again. He doesn’t want to face this alone – he’s not sure that he can.

  
Moriarty was right. When it came down to it, he _would_ do anything just to keep clinging to this life. Right now, that means putting Sherlock in danger. And Sherlock in danger is a terrible thought; Sherlock dead, even more so.

  
He still can’t bring himself to say it again. Not just yet.

  
“Why’d you come?” he says instead, knowing full well that he’s interrupting the detective but unable to bear the silence.

  
Just him and the bomb.

 _Tick. Tick._

  
“You know full well why,” Sherlock says curtly.

  
“Humor a dead man, would you?”

  
Sherlock gives him an alarmed look before it melts away, replaced by a shadow of a smirk.

  
“Because you need me.”

  
Lestrade snorts. Cheeky bastard, using his own words against him.

  
“Yeah. God help me, I do.”

  
They share a private smile at the ritual-like exchange of those phrases and, for a moment, he’s able to forget he’s about to die.

  
Then the laptop beeps, and it all comes back.

  
“Not good?” Lestrade asks numbly, seeing Sherlock’s face fall a fraction as he returns his attention to the screen.

  
“Not great,” he answers. “I solved the first two. But there are more.”

  
And then Lestrade’s mind bubbles over with all that he wants to say – all that he _needs_ to say, everything he would say if they had had a lifetime together. But they don’t have that; not anymore.

  
So he crams a lifetime into three minutes and hopes to _God_ that it’s enough.

  
“D’you remember the night I got you those tickets to the opera? Been thinking about that all day. I dunno why, it just sort of popped into my head – your face and all. God, I don’t think I’ve ever seen you caught off-guard like that. It was brilliant.”

  
“Lestrade –”

  
“And that time you and John ended up in the bloody Thames in fucking _February_ and I had to drag the two of you out myself? Seems I do that a lot, saving your ass,” and he says it playfully, because it’s true and they all know it – it’s become itself a running joke. “And that night after the pool –”

  
That night after the pool, when he’d held Sherlock tightly against his chest until the detective had fallen into a fitful doze. He hadn’t done that in years; he hasn’t done it since.

  
“Don’t –”

  
“Sometimes, when you stay at my place, I’ll wake before you in the morning and – and I’ll just watch you for a while.” He’s stumbling over his words now in his haste to get them out. “I think those are the only times I’ve – you look at peace. That’s what it is. I don’t see that often. I’ll miss it.”

  
“Lestrade,” Sherlock breaks in curtly. “Do shut up. I’m trying to save your life.”

  
“And I’m trying to keep my sanity,” Lestrade retorts. “This ticking is driving me bloody _mad_.”

  
The clock hits the four-minute mark as he says that; unbidden, Lestrade lets out a soft whimper. Sherlock is getting tense, he can see – the expression that he wears now is one of unending frustration.

  
He’s not going to be able to fix this.

  
“Sherlock, leave!”

  
Sherlock slams his hand onto the table. “I came this far!”

  
“Sherlock,” Lestrade says desperately. “Sherlock, it’ll take you at least a minute to get to the other end of the room and down the stairs and you need to do it; you need to be out. This blast will take the whole of this warehouse down with it and I can’t have you here!”

  
“And what then?” Sherlock says fiercely, hands gripping the edge of the table so tightly that his knuckles begin to turn white. “What happens after that?”

  
Lestrade stares at him dumbly, unable to answer. Sherlock turns back to his work, glaring holes into the screen, keystrokes becoming more and more frenzied.

  
“Sherlock –”

  
“I’m not leaving,” he growls shortly.

  
“You’ve never been noble a day in your life. Don’t, for the love of _God_ , start now,” Lestrade tells him. “He did this on purpose, you know: giving you everything and then taking it all back. Forcing – forcing you to say goodbye _twice_. Don’t let him make you a dead man as well. I won’t have it.”

  
“I can _do_ this!”

  
“I never doubted that,” Lestrade says earnestly. “But there’s not enough time, and you know it. Don’t delude yourself, Sherlock; it isn’t like you.”

  
Sherlock backs away from the laptop and runs a hand frantically through his hair, eyes wide and brain buzzing. “It’s – I just need more _time_. There must be a way –“

  
He dives for the laptop again, pounding on the keys like the madman that he is, and Lestrade aches at the sight of his desperation.

  
“How long?”

  
“I can –”

  
“How _long, Sherlock?_ ” Lestrade says forcefully.

  
Sherlock balls a hand into a fist, visibly gritting his teeth. “Ten minutes. I’d need – just ten more minutes. That’s it.”

  
“Huh.” Lestrade cracks his neck, which has gone stiff with his lack of movement. “Well, how about that.”

  
The first goodbye had been a blessing; this second one, coming on the heels of such a spectacularly close almost-rescue, leaves a bitter taste in his mouth. He must have planned that, Lestrade thinks. Moriarty must have known all along that allowing them to speak on the phone would bring comfort to both. He planned that, and he planned this, all with the intent of leaving a permanent mark on Sherlock’s life.

  
He’ll have to live with this, Lestrade realizes as he gazes sadly at the detective, who has gone back to pecking at the keys but with none of his earlier drive. It’ll all be over for Lestrade in a manner of minutes, but Sherlock has come so close and so far for nothing. He played right into Moriarty’s hand, and from the grave the madman will go on torturing him.

  
And there isn’t a thing Lestrade can do about it.

  
Sherlock straightens finally and backs away from the machine, hands clenching into fists as he stares at the screen. His gaze is dulled; he looks defeated.

  
“I killed him,” he says abruptly, sentences clipped as his brain stutters, trying to get the information out. “I didn’t even think – but I wish I hadn’t. He died quickly and he – shouldn’t have. I should have made sure he – suffered, as you did. Are.”

  
“Don’t,” Lestrade breaks in. “You’re better than him; better than that. I wouldn’t’ve wanted you to shoulder that burden.”

  
“But I would have.”

  
Lestrade shakes his head vehemently.

  
“You’re a good man; always have been. I’m glad he didn’t get a chance to change that,” Lestrade says quietly. He glances at the clock and the numbers turn him to ice. “There’s less than three minutes. You need to _leave_ , Sherlock. Please.”

  
“I can’t –”

  
“You can. _Sherlock_.” He adopts his best stern tone and, even though he’s sitting down, even though he’s bloody terrified, it works. Sherlock closes his eyes for a beat, breathes, and then looks over. “Come cut my hands free, if y’would.”

  
And, finally, that spurs something in the detective. Sherlock snatches the knife off the table and closes the distance between them in three quick strides. He grabs Lestrade and kisses him hard, cradling his chin in one hand while the other gently saws at the ropes binding his wrists until they fall away. Lestrade brings his hands around in front of him, careful not to jostle the vest too hard, and grabs two fistfuls of the detective’s shirt, keeping him close.

  
“I never needed to be a good man,” Sherlock says in a low voice, breath caressing Lestrade’s cheek, “because you were always there to be one for me.”

  
He pulls back further and Lestrade thinks, _No_. He’d been wrong earlier. The expression that crosses Sherlock’s face now, before it’s brushed aside and buried – _this_ is Sherlock, shattered.

  
“Calm down,” he whispers. He brings a hand to Sherlock’s chest; feels the hammering of his heart. It mirrors Lestrade’s. “S’all right. It’s fine. You’re fine.”

  
“I don’t care –”

  
“But I do.” Sherlock is whole beneath his hand; warm and real. Lestrade takes what comfort from that he can, and draws a deep breath. There’s so much more he wants to say. He wants to be reassuring. He wants to tell Sherlock it isn’t his fault; it never could be his fault. But Sherlock wouldn’t have appreciated such trite phrases and Lestrade doesn’t want to waste their final words together on such banal sentiments.

  
“You have John,” Lestrade says instead, because it’s the only reassurance he can offer and he needs it as much as Sherlock.

  
“And having you both was asking too much?” Sherlock snaps bitterly.

  
“No. No, of course not. I’m sorry,” he whispers brokenly and now isn’t the time for _what ifs_ and _maybes_ so he bites back the words and pulls Sherlock in for a final time.

  
When they break apart he says, “You know what happens after? You keep _living_ , Sherlock. Keep on being extraordinary. Do that for me. _Go_.”

  
Sherlock leans his forehead against Lestrade’s, breathing sharply through his nose, and on the exhale a hoarse, “Greg,” seeps through.

  
And then he’s gone, darting across the vast floor, swallowed up by shadows and out of sight long before the sound of his footsteps fades. The door clangs open and shuts behind him, and the sound reverberates through Lestrade’s head.

  
The last sound he’ll ever hear Sherlock make.

  
“Right, now, just you and me,” he tells the clock. This is going to happen, and he can’t stop it, but he can sure as hell make sure it happens on _his_ own terms. Moriarty decided how he would die; he doesn’t get to dictate precisely _when_. “Let’s do this.”

  
His mind is oddly blank as the clock clicks over to the wrong side of thirty seconds. He doesn’t think of Sherlock apart from a nebulous feeling that the man is _not here_ , and that’s good. That means he’s safe.

  
He would have liked to grow old alongside the detective. He’ll settle for having ensured that Sherlock lives to see another day.

  
There are sixteen seconds left when he rips the vest away and triggers the bomb.

  
He feels a fleeting satisfaction.

  
And then he feels nothing at all.

**Author's Note:**

> Many, many thanks to [Sidney Sussex](http://sidneysussex.livejournal.com/) for helping me throughout the writing and posting of this story. Your insights were invaluable.


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